running
by Tris'sLightningQuill
Summary: One-shot. Playing with a stream-of-consciousness feel for this one. A scene between Moody and Tonks a few years before his retirement. I wanted to see some of the relationship we missed out on. Please review, I need pointers on how to clean it up.


_Running, legs pumping, up down up down in quick, uncontrolled strides. Knees jutting up into my field of vision. My lungs burning, a lance through my breastbone, my breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. Heat radiating from my body, cold sweat pouring down my skin, hot, cold, hot, cold, my leg and chest muscles crying their agony. My brain, registering only the frantic motions, _faster, don't stop_, and wanting to break down so bad. Foot, hitting empty air, catching on nothing, and _—Not again! —_ my body twists in the air as I try not to fall, to catch myself before I hit the unforgiving stone, but I can__'__t, of course I can__'__t, it__'__s just running and falling, up and down steep, steep stairs running and falling, and falling again…_ "Oof," _all the air goes out of me as the stone slams my back with bone-bruising force._

"Up!" the gravelly voice yells somewhere above my head. Groaning, I try to do as it bids, and stop. I don't want to get up. "Up!" Roaring in my ear now, irate, insistent; two years' experience forces me to get moving. I literally have to pry my eyelids open, and once I do, sure enough, Moody's towering over me, wantonly flailing his wand around, looking as mad as his blue eye. Moaning and groaning anew I prop my weight on my elbows and, getting my feet under me, stagger upright and lurch into motion again. I pound up the stairs — each as high as my knee — focusing only on the step ahead, willing my feet not to slip, or fumble, or backslide. It doesn't matter that my throat burns as my breath rasps noisily though it, doesn't matter that I can hardly get a breath through the stitch in my side, that my head is all swimmy from oxygen debt, and my muscles all about to give. I'm running, I have to keep running, no matter if it kills me. I'm mindless with fatigue and despair, the horse running forever from the terror of the whip.

I reach the top and, skidding on the stone, frantic to snatch my footing before I crash, _again_, touch my mark, and sprint down again. My heart's beating like crazy, fit to burst, but I keep on running, pushing myself to go as fast as I can. I watch Moody's stoic silhouette growing larger as I approach his sentinel post halfway down the arena, jogging up and down like a bad earthquake effect on an old TV show, so bad I can hardly get a fix on him. He observes my progress with stony indifference, leaning on his oaken staff. If I don't slow down, don't miss a step to watch what my feet are doing, he might not 'encourage' me with his wand, which makes me fall almost half as often as when I trip over nothing, tumble down the cold, hard tiers like so much wet laundry. I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, on dragging a breath from the icy air and forcing it out again. My vision pulses with sparks in time with my blood, but it doesn't matter, because it's jarring so bad I only catch glimpses of stuff anyways.

_Up the stairs again. Lungs bursting; sweat drenching my hair, face, stinging like mad in my eyes. _Mark. _Turn, running down the stairs, quick as you can… Feet planting firmly, careful, _careful_, not to trip, headlong rushing. Moody, watching, face unreadable. Turn __'__round, do it all over again, step after bloody step, breath after bloody breath, over and over. _I put my head down, charging, fists pumping in unison with legs and feet that move on memory alone, 'cause I'm certainly not telling them what to do anymore, I can barely feel 'em. _Breathe, don__'__t forget to breathe, don__'__t slow down, don__'__t stop._ I know I can do this. _Mark_. I wheel and face the empty arena, practically sliding down the aisle. On either side, the steps come up to my waist. It's faster going down, easier, with gravity taking some of the strain off my screaming muscles. I want to stop, but, Moody says, "Jump," I say "How high?" and there ain't nothing I can do until he says so. I've forgotten _why_ we're running steps in the Department of Mysteries at one o' clock in the morning; he says I got a lesson to learn, another lesson, and I want to learn it, I do, but this feels like torture to me, not teaching. If he says so, I'll still be running when the Unspeakables lock up tomorrow night. There's nothing but the mind-numbing agony in my legs and chest, not a thought in my head.

My foot catches a stair on edge and keeps sliding, and the rest of me follows. The impact of stone against my body is drowned out in the stomach-jolting sensation of the back of my skull cracking against the step, and I see stars. I lie still, looking at the dark ceiling, some hundred feet above me, the nebulous starburst of lights in front of my eyes. My wind's been knocked loose again, and there's no breath in me, so I couldn't have moved if I'd even wanted to try. My muscles aren't sure what to do with themselves in the shock of abrupt inactivity, so they all set to trembling violently. My feet in their heavy leather boots feel like deadweights, detached and useless, the rubber soles bouncing aimlessly against the stone when I fell.

When I don't pop back up promptly enough for his liking, Moody comes clomping over, swinging his stick; I hear the syncopated _thunk_ing of his three footfalls. His scar-bent and –twisted visage thrusts into my line of sight, even further distorted by the scowl pulling his ragged brows low in a sharp V over his mismatched eyes. I know him well enough now, to see that it's more care than annoyance, no matter he'd have everyone think otherwise; that's just his way. I know he loves me as best he can, and I love him, too, the gruff, irascible old man, because he took under his wing when he didn't have to, 'cause he believed in me when nobody else did, not even myself. _That__'__s_ why I'm running steps at the Ministry of Magic in the wee hours of the morn, panting like a dog with asthma, soaked through with sweat, my muscles convulsing, every inch of me black and blue. Instead of bussing tables at the Leaky Cauldron or sleeping on the couch at my parent's house.

"Up!" Moody roars at me after a quick once-over shows I'm not _seriously_ injured; well, there's no blood on the stone, so by his philosophy, I should be jumping a hundred feet in the air. Not bloody likely.

I just shake my head, slowly, side to side. There's gonna be a knot where I whacked it. For a moment, his mouth works in speechless fury, blood rising in his brown face, that I should have the gall to defy him.

"Get up! Again!" The shouts reverberate around the empty Hall, and seemingly inside my skull. I shake my head. My sides are heaving, but finally I'm getting a little air. "CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" The full-throated bark rings in my ears worse than the last. "Constant vigilance, and you can do anything. Get up! Master your flesh, or it'll master you, forever."

That's why I'm running, to train my body to run blindly, fast and accurate when I need it to, instead of tripping up on thin air, to crash to the ground at a Death Eater's feet. I don't think I'll ever grow into my legs, I'm nineteen already, and still clumsy as a new colt. We've been at it for hours already; all I want to do is go lie down. But Moody won't let me be. He says I've gotta master myself, or I'll never make it, and I want to do it so bad, and tonight I started out with hope in my heart, but there's none of that left now. I'll never be able to pass, never get licensed. I don't even want to try anymore, but he won't let me quit, and any excuse I could come up with wouldn't hold any water. Here, if ever there was the living proof of it, he's standing over me. One leg tore off, one eye plucked out, gallons of blood spilled, so many scars, and he's still the best there is. And he _is_ still my master, I still his underling. So as long as there's a wand in his had, he says, "Jump," I say "How high?"

To my surprise, he levers himself to the stone beside me, and I hear him grumble and sigh, and his old joints creaking. I just breathe, unsure, and uncaring. I just want tonight to end, so I can go back to my bunk and cry.

"I don't understand it," he says musingly, almost teasingly. I love listening to his threaty, rasping deep voice, imparting wisdoms, telling stories, saying my name like I'm important, like I _belong_ somewhere — somewhere like with him. "Put a wand in your hand, and you can curse the bloody brains out o' anything you like," he's saying. "But on your feet you'd put a mooncalf to shame. Merlin's beard, girl, that's gotta stop, and you _can_ stop it." His tones are low and as tender as I think I've ever heard them. "You _can_ conquer the limitations of your flesh. _I_ know you can do it, _you_ know you can do it. You set your mind to something and you get it done. Constant vigilance." He offers me his arm and I drag my useless carcass into a technically upright position, remembering how to breathe. I get that tight, choky feeling in the back of my throat, so I close my eyes, where the tears can only sting and burn against the back of my eyelids. The arena is cold, frigid, and gelid as an icy tomb, which I guess it is, and the cold goes deeper than bone. I feel it seeping into me from the stone under my skin, now that I've sat still long enough to become aware of it. My exhausted body slumps to one side, to lean against Moody's shoulder, and he lets me. For a few long moments we just sit like that, and I'm not thinking about how useless this is, about how if I fail my exam 'cause of this they'll kick me out and I'll have to start all over, and I don't want to, I know that fighting the Dark Arts is what I want to do with my life, I wouldn't know what else to do… But no: Moody promised everything would be all right, that if I worked hard I'd make it. I _am_ good enough to be an Auror. And Moody would never lie to me, so I press back the despair I'd allowed to start to rise up in me, and steel myself to face whatever toil, unafraid.

Moody wipes the mouthpiece of his hip-flask on his cloak and offers it to me. I take a swig, and another, once I find I can swallow it without searing my throat: I'm surprised once again to find that it's just water — I'd always supposed the flask held spirits, to drink against the aches of his body, the horrors of his memories. My already vast respect for the man raises another several notches.

Once I've drunk, he clambers painstakingly to his feet, then gazes down at me, holding out his hand. "Are you ready to try again?"

I take his hand and allow him to haul me to my feet.


End file.
